Maundy Thursday

(môn'dē) [Lat. mandatum, word in the ceremony], traditional English name for Thursday of Holy Week, so named because it is considered the anniversary of the institution of the Eucharist by Jesus at the Last Supper (that is, the mandatum novum or “new commandment”). In some churches, Jesus's washing of the disciples' feet is symbolically reenacted. In Great Britain there is a survival in the distribution by the sovereign of special “maundy money” to certain of the poor at Westminster Abbey. In the Roman Catholic Church, Maundy Thursday is a general communion day; a single Mass is sung, in the evening, and a Host, consecrated for the morrow, is placed in a specially adorned chapel of repose. The altars are stripped bare until the Easter vigil mass.

- the word according to Columbia Encyclopedia as seen at Answers.com (http://www.answers.com/topic/maundy-thursday)


There are enough problems now without sin. Also I have no understanding of it. I have no understanding of it and I am not sure that I believe in it.

"Ay," he said...There is no translation for this word and perhaps it is just a noise a man might make, involuntarily, feeling the nail go through his hands into the wood.

- a coupla lines from Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea


It's all this water making me think of sharks and Jesus Christ. And Transformers. Off to the cinema then come hell or high water. Or this:



Wasakman.

The River Of Bees

In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blind man followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older

Soon it will be fifteen years

He was old he will have fallen into his eyes

I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live

One of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Images of hope
It was offered to me by name

Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say

He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass

I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay

He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water

We are the echo of the future

On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live

- W.S. Merwin

last of summer

keep your cheeks dry, beach bums, summer ain't over yet - because it never began. yep, the universe pounded over its roof which is also itself (to horribly paraphrase Amado Bajarias' storm of a poem Happiness in Other Planets) the past coupla months. if you ask me, am all for this erratic weather; at least it makes things interesting, even fashion. imagine girls in bikinis and rain boots. or guys in leather jackets over tank tops ala 70s/80s action stars. sexxxay.

this is really just formalizing it but lemme begin this brooding-in-your-bed season with an old one by Cake. pour on, universe.




We know of an ancient radiation
That haunts dismembered constellations
A faintly glimmering radio station

While Frank Sinatra sings "Stormy Weather"
The flies and spiders get along together
Cobwebs fall on an old, skipping record

Beyond the suns that guard this roof
Beyond your flowers of flaming truths
Beyond your latest ad campaigns

An old man sits collecting stamps
In a room all filled with Chinese lamps
He saves what others throw away
He says that he'll be rich someday

We know of an ancient radiation
That haunts dismembered constellations
A faintly glimmering radio station

While Frank Sinatra sings "Stormy Weather"
The flies and spiders get along together
Cobwebs fall on an old skipping record